


Kill Me Gently (But Don't You Dare Get Up And Leave)

by petroltogo



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brainwashing, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Codependence, Hand-wavy Psychology, Hand-wavy medicine, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Mythological Creature (sort of), Relationship Development, Repeated Temporary Character Death, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, WinterIron Bang 2017, questionable morals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 13:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petroltogo/pseuds/petroltogo
Summary: "Starborns are not touched by death the way most living beings are. It comes at the price of a fascination with death—and those who cause it."Tony doesn’t know how to stay dead. The Asset doesn’t know how not to kill. They meet somewhere in the middle. Who said murder is a bad basis for a relationship?





	Kill Me Gently (But Don't You Dare Get Up And Leave)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so happy to finally post my WinterIron Bang entry! (Don't let that fool you into believing I didn't wait until twenty-five minutes ago to write the last scene tho) Please enjoy the madness that is this fic and don't forget to check out the amazing art!

“ _Death is only a horizon, and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight_.” 

—R. W. Raymond

 

**.0.**

The target is Timothy McDouglas, a short man in his early fifties who owns more companies than he has hairs on his head. McDouglas is either too stupid or too secure in his mediocre security system to comprehend the danger he is in. The Asset finds himself reluctantly impressed. Not many have the ability, never mind the courage to piss off one of HYDRA's highest active operators and throw a ball at their own home not two weeks later. 

The Asset scowls. None of these thoughts are relevant to the ongoing mission, and are therefore considered a waste of time and cognitive resources. He needs to focus.

A ball means people. Means unforeseeable variables and less predictable patterns that complicate the mission. But a huge event like this also means security will be distracted and spread thin. Not to mention fewer people will suspect the involvement of untoward third parties in McDouglas' death, which suits the mission parameters.

_No witnesses_ , his handlers had demanded. _No signs of force. No traces._ A mission that relies more on stealth than brute strength, just the way the Asset prefers it.

The Asset furrows its brows at the stray thought standing out between the reflexive observation of his target's home. The Asset has no preferences, only missions. Decisions are left to the handlers. The Asset knows only orders and to follow them without question.

 _For HYDRA_ , he remembers, but even these words ring hollow, have long lost their meaning.

Entering the mansion undetected is laughably simple. Getting the target alone while simultaneously avoiding detection by guards and guests alike less so. 

It is an endless game in which there is no cat nor mouse, only humans and the one who has forgotten what that means. The Asset finds a strange enjoyment in this task that so skilfully combines the thrill of the hunt with the lack of blood that always sticks to you a little longer than it reasonably should, as though becoming part of the hand who draws it.

Eventually the Asset finds his target in a small drawing room with cream white walls that remind him of snow and splattered blood and howling wolves in the dark, circling the weak and the helpless.

The Asset feels a curious flash of fondness, even as he holds on to the weakly, desperately struggling target. Muffles the screams that follow him into the night, but never quite reach him, as though, even in the dark, they fear him more than he does them. The Asset doesn't mind. He isn't very fond of screams. They are hardly ever relevant to the mission.

In general the Asset prefers guns over a closer involvement. Guns allow for a distance that is usually conducive to the mission, so it is a preference he allows. In this case however an injection has been deemed the better course of action.

A heart attack won't be looked upon twice.

The trickiest part, the Asset finds, is holding on to the struggling target without leaving bruises that will lead to questions HYDRA does not want to answer. He manages to wrestle the target in place all the same, pierces the soft skin under his thumb with the prepared needle. Waits.

It's rare for one of his missions to go off without a hitch, the Asset finds himself thinking absently as he carefully positions the target's body on the floor. HYDRA has a strict policy against wasting resources. Theirs at least. They do not deploy the Asset unless the Asset is needed. Complications, therefore, are to be expected.

Of course it is exactly in this moment that a soft gasp, nothing more than a quick exhale of air, draws the Asset's attention to the door. His gaze finds wide, brown eyes that belong to a young child, barely old enough to reach the Asset's hip. After a moment of mutual inspection the child shakes its head, dark curls flying everywhere. They look soft, and the Asset finds himself battling away the reminder of a healthy animal's beautiful fur.

It is not relevant to the mission after all. The boy on the other hand is.

He is too young to be trusted should he tell anyone what he's seen, the Asset judges. Shakes the contemplation off with a mild surge of annoyance. The Asset is not meant to judge, only to execute. And his orders are clear.

No witnesses.

There is no poison left but children fall.

"Close your eyes," the Asset commands. His voice is cold, demanding, with no tolerance for anything but unquestioning obedience. He does not understand why the order is necessary, but neither does he take it back.

The child complies, yet doesn't. Its eyes close but its mouth forms a reflexive pout, half opened into a question the Asset has no interest in answering.

It reminds him of a fawn. The Asset finds himself thinking of their soft fur and gentle eyes, of prey and predator and the wolves that never hesitate to leap.

Neither does he.

**.-.**

“They are called firebirds by some, but fire extinguishes far too easily. They are a symbol of rebirth and second chances to others, but overcoming death does not erase the past.

So if you remember one thing, and one thing only, bambino, let it be this: It is not in flames but in ashes that the undying are reborn. It is not fire but stardust burning in our veins. And though the stars will favour their own, they do not intervene on behalf of the living.“

 

**.1.**

There are three targets this time. It is not a rare occurrence per se for the family of an obstacle to be deemed a risk to HYDRA. And for all that the thought leaves a curl of distaste in the Asset's stomach he struggles to understand, he finds the logic behind it appealing. Erasing a potential enemy before he has grown into his fullest strength tends to be in line with the goal of his missions.

Going over the provided information as well as his own careful observation once more, the Asset makes one last adjustment to the final plan. The heir first. Then the main and secondary target.

This time, his handlers have given no specifications for the kind of death they are looking for. Left to his own devises, the Asset has decided on a high distance-low risk approach. For the heir this means careful measuring and a high-quality sniper rifle are all the Asset requires. The timing is trickier, as the main and secondary target are attending a society function and might be in transit by the time he is done. The Asset can not allow them to learn of their son's death, renewed wariness may jeopardise the primary mission.

Difficult but not impossible.

The Asset peers through the scope of the rifle, carefully adjusts its position. Settles himself for the wait, as his target has not yet seen it fit to enter the room. But sniping is as much about patience as it is about taking aim, and when it concerns a mission the Asset has both in spades.

It takes forty-three minutes before the target enters its workroom. Not an unusual amount of time, as the Asset has noticed the target lacks a clear schedule. Another hour passes before the target finally settles, its agitated movements stilling as it focuses on the papers before him.

From experience the Asset knows the target will not move again for quite some time, too caught up in its work. He makes the last corrections in the rifle's position, adjusts his grip, runs through the numbers again.

Suddenly the target lifts its head. And even though the Asset knows he is too far away to be detected by the human eye, he stills as he meets intelligent, brown eyes. There is something in that absent-minded gaze, so unlike the terror the Asset usually encounters, that makes him think of creaking twists and leaves rustling in the wind, makes him smell wood and moss and rain.

The Asset's lips curl with an emotion he can't identify. He pulls the trigger.

Absently he wonders what it is about the heir that screams prey so loudly, he can feel his heart thrumming with the thrill of the chase.

But the Asset is not meant to think and there are two more targets to be dealt with, so he pushes the fragments of a clear thought away. Leaves. Doesn't look back once.

**.-.**

Howard and Maria Stark die in a car accident on December 16, 1991.

The stars shudder. Glimmer. Glow.

Their only child, Tony Stark, awakens two days later, slumped over a table in his workshop with a headache to rival his worst MIT hangover.

The blood he wipes off his forehead is still warm.

 

**.2.**

The Asset is unsure what about the boy draws his attention. The club, known for its exclusiveness and discretion, is packed with people. Most of them probably celebrities of some sort, though their faces don't jiggle any memory no matter how faint.

The boy on the other hand. The Asset has noticed him pushing his way through the crowd, clearly struggling. Wearing a face too young to belong into a place like this, but not the target and therefore irrelevant to the mission.

Yet the Asset keeps noticing him. The harsh, demanding gestures of someone used to get what he wants when talking with the bartender. The way he off-handedly slaps greedy hands away, keeps dancing just out of reach. The way he stumbles, clearly intoxicated, yet his eyes remain sharp like broken glass.

The boy is soft, small, emitting no sense of danger the Asset can discern. He is a clumsy lamb in a den filled with lions, and yet he disregards them. Scoffs at their bared teeth. Laughs mockingly in the face of their rumbling growls.

And the Asset is entranced with this soft boy with wild hair and even wilder eyes who has no relevance to the mission at all.

It is dangerous, these curling tendrils of... _interest_ that demand to be acknowledged, to be sated. 

The Asset forces himself to dismiss the sensation. To focus on the mission instead.

One administered drug overdose later, just as he is ready to leave, the Asset stumbles into the boy he has been watching from afar. A faint echo of what might be exasperation runs through the Asset as he watches the boy blink up to him, squints at the collapsed body in the corner where it is meant to be found.

"Huh," the boy mutters, the vocal drawn out as though he isn't quite sure how the sound is supposed to end. 

Mentally the Asset adds another drink to the three he has watched the boy consume himself.

He is unsure how to proceed. The body is meant to be found, and his handlers have not given any indication on how to handle witnesses. There weren't meant to be any witnesses, so the scenario had not been discussed.

Distracted by the lack of orders on how to deal with the situation, the Asset doesn't notice the boy's approach until he is close enough to jab a finger into the Asset's chest, causing him to jump. He can't remember the last time someone came close enough to touch him without a fight. He can’t remember the last time someone touched him, period.

"You," the boy says, pushes his finger into the Asset's chest again, as if to stress a point. His breath smells of alcohol and he looks utterly unafraid. "Are. Hot." Every word is accompanied by another jab, and with the glare the boy throws at him, the words sound like an accusation.

The Asset doesn't know what to do with that. The boy's aggressiveness has him itching for a fight, yet the boy doesn't look, doesn't feel threatening. Appears more like a butterfly, beautiful and so easily crushed, than a wasp with its poisonous sting.

"So what's your deal, Mr Lone Wolf?" the boy continues, a steady flow of chatter filled with questions that roll too quickly off the boy's tongue for him to truly expect an answer.

The Asset smiles without thought or reason as the name registers. He is fond of wolves.

It's the noise of approaching footsteps that finally breaks the strange spell the Asset has found itself under. He can't allow any more witnesses. Puts efficiency over elegance as he pushes the boy out of his way. He hits the wall hard, perhaps too hard, but the Asset doesn't have the time to check on him. Nor should he for that matter.

Lambs have no place in a world filled with wolves, he reminds himself, and doesn't take the time to wonder about the niggling doubt those words evoke.

Disappears into the shadows instead, where hunter and hunted alike are monsters at heart, and weakness is neither excused nor forgiven.

**.-.**

Anthony Stark is born into the world in silence, star dust glittering in his eyes. A stillborn, the midwife declares, only to be proven wrong when, as though out of spite alone, the too small newborn parts its lips to draw a determined breath and screams.

From that moment on, Anthony is rarely quiet. Does indeed go to great lengths to avoid silences of any kind. And the universe indulges his whims, as it is often known to do.

The quiet, so Anthony decides, is for the dead. And Anthony has neither the time nor the patience to waste on them. He much prefers the way of the living, loud and rambunctious and too bright as it may be.

And death, as always, favours the bold.

 

**.3.**

The Asset has no particular opinion on fighting. It is a necessity, not a pleasure, plain and simple. Fights with opponents of any skill level imaginable don't excite him, don't frighten him, don't do anything at all. The only thing he thinks when stuck trading bullets and blows, is survival.

Only one will survive, will walk away. And it is less the Asset's focus to ensure his continued existence and more to ensure his target won't. That is what the mission demands.

Still, as little as he thinks of battles in general, it isn't rare for the Asset to find himself at the centre of one. It is rare for the people attacking not to be his target or his target's security though.

He isn't sure why these un-enhanced, barely armed men have chosen to attack him but they hardly pose any challenge. Their only advantage is in numbers and with how easily he puts them down, even that is dwindling fast.

With one last hit strong enough to cave a skull in his last attacker crumbles to the ground.

"Wow," someone breathes behind him.

Before the Asset has even registered the movement, he has already whirled around and slammed the person behind him against the nearest wall by their throat. A male in his twenties, he notices absently, not that it matters. The Asset doesn't understand how he has missed this one at first but it doesn't matter.

Wide, dark eyes stare back at him, something that looks oddly like recognition flashing through them. Or maybe it's the unsettling feeling of having seen these eyes before that the Asset sees reflected back at him.

The male is clawing at his hand as though to ease the pressure of the hold on his throat, the Asset notices suddenly.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," he rasps, the words thinning out as he struggles to pull some air back into his lungs.

The Asset frowns. Confused by the words as much as the lack of satisfaction this one-sided fight has brought. But then it has never been the fight and always the thrill of the hunt that has drawn his interest. Now watching the limp figure in his grasp, the Asset has to quench the strange urge to set this one free. If only so he can catch it again.

In the end, the male stills before the Asset has made his decision. And the fact that he doesn't know which option he would have taken is perhaps the most unsettling of all.

**.-.**

Death, Tony learns early on, is nothing. It is neither relief nor punishment, both sensations firmly reserved for the living. It doesn't heal or turn you into your true self, whatever that is supposed to be. It simply is, except not really because _being_ is reversed for the living as well.

Death means waking up in a pool of blood, as sticky and uncomfortable as spilled lemonade. Sometimes the memories of his last breath are clear and unaffected, sometimes blurry and as hard to see through as murky water. It's got less to do with death, Tony suspects, and more with the way he dies, though he hasn't been able to confirm that.

Unfortunately there is no hooded creature at the 'other end' waiting with answers, no matter how riddled. That would sure be convenient.

Of course usually people don't die more than once and don't begin to ask the sort of question Tony has—like how immune to permanent brain damage he is, because tell me that's not a nice thing to know when you lead the kind of life that regularly gets you shot and choked to death. But Tony is a Carbonell, is starborn, and death has never stuck to him the way it does to ordinary humans.

It is neither a curse nor a blessing, and perhaps more importantly it is not immortality. All things are at one point, just as all things will cease to be eventually. Tony is no exception. He has always known that.

Meeting the man with the pale blue eyes and a smile frozen by the winter's cold has only confirmed the inevitable.

 

**.4.**

The Asset is shadowing his target, Mikael Terris, when a face in the crowd diverts his attention. The man doesn’t stand out, and for a moment the Asset has trouble placing the sudden surge of—excitement? interest? curiosity? he feels. It’s a business man from the looks of it, dressed in an expensive, carefully tailored suit. It reminds the Asset of ball gowns, tinkling laughter and small boys with too big eyes for some reason.

He weaves through the crowd effortlessly, naturally. Where people are forced apart by the Asset’s sharp strides and the instinctive knowledge of the danger he poses, the man doesn’t so much pushes himself through the crowd as moves with the current. It is… interesting.

And oddly familiar, although he can’t place the face.

Before the Asset even realises it, he has lost sight of his target. Is following this intriguing stranger instead. And though he is as careful as always, the Asset is sure that the man knows he is being followed. And if he wasn’t sure, changing the subway no less than eight times in rapid succession would have been all the confirmation he’d needed.

The man is clever, the Asset has to admit. In fact if it had been anyone else following him he would have most likely succeeded in losing them. But the Asset has keen senses and harsh training on his side, and more than killing tracing has always been a talent of his. A passion perhaps even, if the Asset were the kind of person who had those.

As he is forced to jump of another train at the last second, the Asset feels the familiar rush of a hunt in process. It’s enough to erase any thought of the mission he is supposed to fulfil, for the time being at least.

Finally it appears as though the man has reached his home. Either giving in or believing his shadow gone. From the tense line of his shoulders, the Asset assumes the former. He finds himself tensing out of reflex more than the expectation of a true fight.

Entering the mansion proves more of a challenge than the Asset anticipated. The security is top-notch, some of it may not even be commonly available. Not to mention he is working on very limited information. 

But the truth is most security measures are meant to deter and stall, not kill, and since the Asset doesn’t care about detection it’s not enough to keep him out for long. He breaks in through the lavish garden—tearing down the front door seems distasteful somehow, though that might be his training to stay in the shadows speaking.

Landing on healthy green grass in his black combat boots seems wrong somehow, a dichotomy that shouldn’t be. The Asset ignores it. Strides towards the huge glass doors on the paltry instead. They swing open before he has the chance to shatter them.

The Asset doesn’t know how to feel about that. On the one hand, the wooden door frames are of a fine marksmanship he finds himself appreciating. It would have been a shame to damage them. On the other hand the Asset isn’t used to being—invited in.

He enters slowly, warily. Half expecting a trap, half certain the trap has already been sprung when he first started following the unexpectedly fascinating man.

The living space—too large to be called a room—is open, sparsely decorated, and doesn’t look lived in. The Asset isn’t sure how he knows this, but for all the pictures on the walls and delicate glass figurines on the shelf, the house seems bare.

With the exception of the man standing in front of what appears to be a well-stocked bar at least. Said man raises an eyebrow as he makes a show of looking the Asset up and down. His suit jacket lies discarded on a love seat a couple of feet away, and the shirt he’s wearing underneath has the first three buttons unbuttoned. The man wears a well-cared for goatee that sharply contrasts with the mess of curls that could probably use a cut or several.

But it’s the man’s brown eyes that truly hold the Asset’s attention. Where everything about this man, from his clothes to the way he raises a glass of whiskey in wordless question, has an edge of challenge to it, they are gentle. Soften the man’s otherwise aggressively careless appearance. They appeal to the Asset on a level he can’t quite grasp, never mind put into words.

“So, I don’t often get this kind of attention,“ the man makes a half-hearted gesture into the Asset’s general direction. “Most of my stalkers aren’t this good, nor as dressed as you are, you know? Which not that you can’t pull the bondage outfit off, but I’m not gonna lie and say I’m not a little disappointed.”

The rambling washes over the Asset like a soothing wave. The low pitch of the man’s voice is surprisingly pleasant, relaxing even. It’s a confusing feeling the Asset isn’t sure he’s supposed to feel, yet fails to shake off.

“Well,” the man claps his hands happily, and it takes the Asset two full blinks to confirm that the emotion isn’t genuine. A fighter the man may not be, but a skilled manipulator he definitely is. “You’ve got my attention, honey. What can I do for you?”

The question is pronounced with the added sweetness of what can only be a setup. Another one in a line of traps the Asset has already chosen to trigger—or has fallen for, depending on the point of view.

The Asset opens his mouth. Closes it again. The game of words is not one he’s been trained in. Not one he’s sure he can win. And anyways, the Asset has never learned how to phrase his thoughts and wants—the ones he doesn’t have because the Asset wants for nothing—in words and letters. Or perhaps he has simply forgotten. Perhaps at some point words have lost all meaning, have been frozen and shattered by the cold, never to be recovered.

The Asset isn’t sure he minds.

The man tilts his head, still waiting for an answer. It occurs to the Asset suddenly that he indeed knows the man, as searching brown eyes finally slot into place and complete a faded memory.

A young boy in a crowd of people, unafraid and far too close, springs to mind. The stench of sweat and alcohol. Pounding music.

The Asset’s brows furrow as he considers the fragments that lack clear context. The boy can’t have been a mission, but then how could he be important enough to be remembered?

“Look, I don’t know you and I don’t know what you want from me,” the man is still talking.

The Asset isn’t sure he ever stopped. Isn’t sure why he can’t recall it. Isn’t sure he has ever been so aware of the danger he poses to the unaware man three steps away from him, and simultaneously felt as though he is merely the prey being judged by an evil far worse than he could imagine.

Which is ridiculous. Both because there is nothing evil in this man—whose eyes may be as wild as he half remembers but are too soft to be anything but good—and because the Asset doesn’t imagine.

It’s too much. Shards of a past he can’t recall that don’t make any sense—a child, a dead target, a head crushed by distraction and too much strength he isn’t used to control. Too familiar eyes watching. Too much knowledge hidden in the flat line of the stranger’s lips, the impatient twitch of his hands. The crushing weight of an abandoned mission—the Asset doesn’t abandon missions—and the punishment that will follow it.

When the man takes a step towards him, drink forgotten on a small table, the Asset doesn’t think, only reacts. There is a threat closing in on a wolf that has never been tamed, only broken, and his teeth are as sharp as they always were.

It doesn’t matter that there is nothing threatening about this man with soft hair and gentle eyes. His bones break, like all human bodies do. The Asset doesn’t find pleasure in fights but he fights all the same, and if there are forces strong enough to bring him to his knees, this particular man is not among them.

There is another voice the Asset hears once, over the rushing sound in his ears, but by the time the man has fallen and the Asset spins on his heels, he is alone.

For a long moment, the only sound filling the bright living area is the Asset’s harsh breathing. Too harsh perhaps, for a quick, effortless victory.

Even lying in an endless sea of broken glass, the man with the calling eyes looks peaceful. And for the first time in the Asset’s living memory, he averts his gaze from a sight he can’t bear—though he doesn’t understand why.

He flees from the beautiful house in a hurry armed chasers have never quite managed to merit. In a short moment before the Asset throws himself into his current mission with new vigour he wonders what it is about humans that makes them as sentimental and easily broken as they are. Wonders if he wouldn’t be better off were he less of one than he already is.

He doesn’t think he would like the answer, whichever it may be.

**.-.**

Tony groans.

“Welcome back, Sir,” JARVIS’ thoroughly unimpressed voice greets him.

Tony pointedly groans again. Not that he doesn’t have a damn good reason. Waking up in a huge pile of splinters is many things, comfortable not being one of them. That his own AI—the one he has created and watched grown over the last decade—will never let him forget this moment doesn’t exactly help.

Granted, JARVIS had repeatedly warned him that confronting a man who has killed him—multiple times for that matter—might not be the best decision. But it’s not like Tony is known for making good choices. And besides what did he have to lose by trying.

What was the guy gonna do, kill him again?

Apparently very much so. And decidedly more painful than the last time.

Still. Tony doesn’t make it a habit to take his murder personally. It’s not in his blood. Starborns are known for their fascination with death and the ones who cause it. As something that continues to remain beyond their ability to experience, extreme circumstances aside, it draws their curiosity the way few things do. And even if he can’t blame his sort-of-fixation on nature alone, how many people kill you multiple times? And not even on purpose?

Not many, as Tony—one of the few qualified to answer this question based on experience—will eagerly tell you. So. Strange, hot guy with the metal arm is definitely worth his attention.

And so what if he has written a couple of programs that continuously combed through the ever growing, world-wide surveillance footage in search for a specific face? Tony Stark isn’t known for subtlety for a reason. Nor is he very good at letting things go.

“Fine,” he grouses, to appease JARVIS if nothing else. “Maybe that didn’t go as planned.”

"I can see that, Sir.“ JARVIS couldn’t have sounded any drier had his voice been made of sandpaper.

Tony slowly sits up and for the one-millionth time wonders at the impossibility of his body not bleeding out, yet his cuts refusing to heal. The true injustice is that an immunity to permanent death doesn’t come with inhumanly fast healing abilities. Cuts in particular are a _pain_.

What good is being alive when you are covered in nothing but bandaids? Oh well, knowing JARVIS, the only ones in stock will probably be Hello Kitty themed. There are worse fates. Like attending a board meeting for Stark Industries, a company that, like all things inherited by his father, Tony spends as little time and effort as possible on. When it comes to dealing with the people there at least. Because people. Euch.

“Might I suggest that next time you proceed with more caution when faced with a masked assassin?” JARVIS inquires in a tone that makes it clear that it isn’t a suggestion at all.

Tony smiles through the grimace as he pulls another shard out of his forearm. Because JARVIS has said ‘next time’, and that more than anything tells him that even his AI is determined to find Hot Leather-Clothed Metal Arm again. Possibly for slightly different reasons—JARVIS does have a curious thirst for vengeance on occasion—but he’s looking.

And with JARVIS behind the search, Tony knows it is only a matter of time until they meet again.

 

**.5.**

Free time isn’t a concept the Asset is used to. But when a mission turns out to be more complicated than expected, sometimes the matter can’t be avoided. His handlers prefer to not have him around longer than necessary, his current ones being particularly vocal about the matter.

Thus the Asset has been let loose onto the unsuspecting citizens of Williamsburg. It is early, the sun still hesitatingly clinging to the horizon. The streets, winding themselves around house after house after house, are only just beginning to shake off their slumber.

Trailing them aimlessly is soothing. There lies a calm in the routined motions that don’t contradict nor aid a mission. They should be pointless, should feel wrong. But the itch in the back of the Asset’s head—the one that reminds him of actions unfinished, that bothers him sometimes, even after a mission has been completed, the sense of something missing—is quiet.

So he walks.

Watches as the world around him slowly awakens, as the crisp morning air looses the last remnants of the night’s cold, and the city around him begins to pulse with life once more. 

It is oddly satisfying to observe, though the more people walk the streets, the more the Asset finds himself drawing back. Like a mole shying away from the bright sunlight, seeking the shadows he knows instead.

Remaining unseen is familiar ground at least, and just as calming in its own right. The Asset finds enjoyment in it, this game that nobody else knows they’re playing. How close can he come without being discovered? How much can he get away with right under the noses of disinterested bystanders?

Even in cities like this, with cameras around every corner and people popping up in the strangest of places, avoiding detection is laughably simple. 

Until. 

There is a man standing in his path. A familiar man. The Asset has to blink, to close his eyes for a moment against the image of broken glass and enchanting eyes burnt into his mind. The man tilts his head, a smile on his face that is all _challenge_ before he turns on his heels and runs.

The Asset doesn’t hesitate for even a moment before he gives chase.

*

The Asset has no concept of disobedience. When the handler asks for a report, he shares the relevant details regarding weather, streets, a small change in the layout of their target’s base since the plans have last been updated.

He doesn’t mention the broken body he left behind in an abandoned backstreet. Doesn’t mention wolves circling a herd of deer, how there are always victims and survivors. Doesn’t mention a witness because dead witnesses are good witnesses.

The Asset doesn’t disobey. He doesn’t need to. There is more than enough room between the letter and the spirit of an order, a room filled with the smell of wood and moss and a chuckle that cracks into nothingness halfway through.

The man who is dead and not dead, who has the eyes of easy prey yet is still drawing breath until the Asset ends it, is not relevant to the mission. There is no need to mention him. There is no need to mention that the thrill of hunting him is warmer than the Californian sun.

The Asset has a concept of ownership, and wolves do not share their kill.

**.-.**

“Anything else, J?” Tony asks absently. It’s been a long day. Has felt like a long day for hours by now, and really, all he wants to hear is an almost-affectionate “No, sir”.

Naturally what he gets is this: “I’m afraid there have been new developments in Project KIMEAL, sir.”

At least JARVIS sounds apologetic about it.

Tony still wants to throw something. He does. It doesn’t help.

“Hit me,” he mutters, even as he falls onto the bed. His huge, luxurious, comfortable bed. The one everyone seems determined to drag him out of as often as possible. JARVIS, darling that he is, obediently projects the data onto the ceiling.

“ _Hot Bondage Stalker_ “ and really, JARVIS’ exasperation at the name Tony has oh so thoughtfully assigned to his oldest obsession never gets old, “has been sighted near a military basis in Pakistan two hours ago, accompanied by three identified men and at least six more.”

“Let me guess, there were a couple of deaths, fire-y explosions and then he dropped off the grid again?” Tony asks flippantly. It’s nothing he hasn’t heard thirty-seven times before. Right now he’s too tired to deal with this shit. Even if it’s Mr Lone Wolf, the bastard who keeps killing him.

“Correct, sir.”

Tony sighs. “And why couldn’t this wait until tomorrow?”

It’s not like there’s anything he can do about it now, the people—whoever they were—are already dead or gone. And he’s tired. _Really_ tired. Has he mentioned that yet?

“Sir, the companions I’ve identified raise interesting questions. Meet Sean Carper, David McGillan and Victor Thorris. Not only are they all US-citizens but they also have very successful careers in various US military organisations. They are skilled in their chosen profession and have all held powerful positions within their organisation.”

“Have?”

“Have,” JARVIS confirms drily. “They are all officially dead.”

Tony blinks in surprise, then narrows his eyes. “Well, they sure look good for a couple of walking corpses… And granted, I’m not as involved in the arms business as I used to be, but dead American soldiers blowing up bunkers in a foreign country… This isn’t gonna be good, is it, J?”

For a long moment JARVIS is quiet, but Tony knows he’s scoffing. He just knows it. His AI’s next words only support his suspicion. “You have been searching for a highly trained, professional assassin with proven political and military connections, sir.”

The ‘ _What did you expect?_ ’ isn’t said but strongly implied. Truth is, Tony doesn’t know what he expected when he first started this crusade. All he knows is, he isn’t going to stop now. (Can’t, perhaps, but he tries not to think too hard about that.)

“Alright, J.” Tony forces his body to sit upright, suppresses another yawn. He can sleep when he’s dead. “Let’s find whatever secret service sect these fuckers belong to and teach them why it’s a very bad move to touch my things.”

“As you wish, sir,” JARVIS responds, a curious mixture of resignation and approval in his voice.

 

**.6.**

The mission should have been simple. Straightforward. The Asset feels a detached sense of amusement when he thinks about that, thinks about the hours of briefings and pouring over data that have gone into this mission, have prepared him to the best of his abilities. In the end, his orders are the only straightforward part about this mission.

Kill Iron Man.

No limits. No rules. No specified means. It doesn’t get much simpler than that.

The Asset evades another repulsor blast. Spins out of the path of an arrow—out of style but as deadly as any bullet. Ducks a shield sharp enough to possibly decapitate him. Despite the unexpected difficulties the Asset doesn’t feel nervous. The Asset is not meant to feel.

Instead he calmly assesses the situation. The handlers’ information must have been faulty or at least incomplete. This is of consequence, but only requires marginal adjustments. The Asset is confident he will be able to complete his mission before other enemy combatants put him down.

“Stand down!” the female—Black Widow, trained in hand-to-hand combat, capable of killing, speciality infiltration—shouts.

The Asset discards her, eyes focused on the target. “The mission must be completed,” he responds. The Asset is not supposed to engage but then, a distraction will work to his advantage.

“What's the mission then, oh Big Bad Ass?” the target asks even as he fires.

The Asset makes no move to avoid the blast. It’s a warning shot, hitting the ground close enough for him to feel its heat. Iron Man’s precision is admirable. Dangerously so.

“Kill Iron Man,” the Asset repeats the orders in his head. There is no reason not to. There is no way to hold the words back. They are everywhere, are everything, and the mission will be completed.

There is no alternative.

Then, as he throws the Black Widow out of a window for the second time, Iron Man stills suddenly. The almost impenetrable helmet recedes, reveals an attractive face with brown eyes and unpleasantly curled lips.

“Stark! What the fuck are you doing?” someone screams but neither the target nor the Asset pay them any mind.

The target has just revealed a weakness that has to be exploited. Iron Man’s gaze is sharp, meets the Assets’ with steely determination.

“Let’s finish the mission then, Lone Wolf,” the target says.

Iron Man shows no fear, not even when the Assets’ hands are wrapped around a fragile, human throat. The skin is warm, soft, comfortable. _Wolf_ , the target calls him, and the word flitters hesitantly back and forth in his mind, fitting and foreign and welcome. Wolves hunt. Fawns run. The target doesn’t move but his eyes are warm despite the unnatural pallor, the pain, and the Asset thinks of fawns, thinks of the young and healthy, fast enough to outrun their deadliest pursuer.

The Asset tightens his grip.

Iron Man’s eyes turn glassy as the life fades and he crumbles when the Asset lets go of him, motionless.

Someone tackles the Asset from behind then, one of the enemy combatants he had discarded in favour of completing the mission, and he loses sight of the fallen body. The next minutes are a blur but with the weight of a mission completed gone, the Asset doesn’t fight with the same relentlessness as before.

The outcome is to be expected. A price to be payed for the success of the mission. So is the holding cell.

What is less expected is Tony Stark visiting him less than forty hours later, the bruises on his throat a dark purple but otherwise undamaged. The target—former target?—raises an eyebrow at the sight of him.

“Now that we got this ugly assassination business out of the way, how do you feel about an upgrade in room service, bed sheet quality and company?” Stark asks with a wide smirk despite the raspy voice. “I’ll even throw in proper health care and a dash of revenge on the fuckers who messed with your head to sweeten the deal.”

The Asset thinks of bones being crushed by his fingers. Thinks of young, healthy fawns and how they grow to outrun even the worst of predators. Thinks of brown eyes and glass shards and blood splatters, and wonders how fast this one can run. Wonders whether he would catch up, eventually.

Nods.

The thrill of the hunt is a call the Asset can not leave unanswered.

**.-.**

_It’s nothing personal_ , Tony doesn’t say as he backs out of the kitchen at the sight of Barnes’ entrance. The words would be a waste of energy, with how often he has repeated them in the last month. Even more so considering everyone knows they are a lie.

There is no denying that Tony has been avoiding the newest stray in his tower—and trust him, nobody does denial quite like Tony Stark—but it’s not for the reason people seem to think it is. Granted, their last meeting is hard to forget, what with the ‘miraculous recovery’ and ‘near death experience’ that wasn’t actually ‘near’ in any way, shape or form. But that’s not the point.

_It’s nothing personal_ is what he says. Because _I don’t blame you for all the times you tracked me down and killed me, all the times you murdered me, that one time you killed my parents and they didn’t make it back_ just doesn’t fit into polite conversation. Because even if Tony knew how to have a proper, adult conversation about feelings and forgiveness and shit, he would still avoid Barnes.

Because Mr Lone Wolf, his hot bondage stalker, the man who’d killed him when he was too young to understand what death was, is James Buchanan Barnes. Is a tortured prisoner of war. Is a brainwashed assassin.

He is a _death bringer_.

And it matters. All of it matters.

It matters because Tony can feel death lingering around Barnes like a cloud of thick, impenetrable smoke, and even as he watches the man struggle to come to terms with the blood on his hands all he sees is _beautiful_. It matters because Barnes watches him the way a predator narrows in on his prey, having been stripped down to the core of who he used to be, all the more sensitive to their connection for it. It matters because Tony dies and Barnes brings death. It matters because Barnes doesn’t want to.

It matters because Tony can’t stop.

Barnes is a death bringer. He brought Tony’s death. And like a junkie on a needle Tony has been hooked from the first time.

_It’s nothing personal_ is the excuse he uses to keep the man that draws him in like nobody else at arms’ length. 

So he shrugs off Steve’s hopeful glances and Pepper’s pointed comments. Pretends he doesn’t notice JARVIS’ sarcasm. Keeps his distance from the man bound to him in a way that will only ever end in blood and tears. And if there is always one small screen alight with a live video from wherever in the tower Barnes currently is, well. Nobody has to know.

 

**.†.**

It could end there. In false excuses and tactical avoidance as the fawn runs and runs and runs. In snarls and bitter violence as a wild wolf is bought in from the cold, still reeling, still fighting.

It won’t.

For no wild wolf will ever be truly tamed. (The thrill of the hunt is a call the Asset can not leave unanswered.)

For starborns are known for their fascination with death and the ones who cause it. (Meeting the man with the pale blue eyes and a smile frozen by the winter's cold has only confirmed the inevitable.)

In the end.

_There is nothing more personal than death._

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo.... thoughts?
> 
> I know I kinda end this right where things get interesting. I've thought a long time about how I want to finish this fic though, and I'm rather happy with my choice now. This story was focused on the Asset and Tony, and now that Bucky begins to recover more and more of his personality, he as a person and his relationship with Tony will undoubtedly change a lot. But the Asset and Tony are the core, the beginning, the starting point, and no matter who Bucky will be two years from this point, this will always be a part of them.
> 
> Please don't forget to check out the amazing art mitochondrials, creepingsoul and Allison Diamond have created, they've all done a brilliant job!!!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: [tonystarktogo](http://tonystarktogo.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Limit of Our Sight [ART]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12102522) by [mitochondrials](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitochondrials/pseuds/mitochondrials)
  * [I've got you in my sight (like prey)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109794) by [CreepingSoul](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreepingSoul/pseuds/CreepingSoul)
  * [Loving My Target](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12109758) by [AllisonDiamond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllisonDiamond/pseuds/AllisonDiamond)




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